The Shining Glass House
by OneDozenSticks
Summary: In the aftermath of the collapse of the Black House and Family that began with Sirius running away. OneDozenSticks: originally DogStar'n'LionHeart Characters: Walburga, Regulus, Sirius, Alphard.
1. Prologue

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_-Presenting-_

**The Shining Glass House**

_-Created for you, by-_

**OneDozenSticks  
**(originally DogStar'n'LionHeart)

_-On the day of-_

**September 7, 2009**

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_-Featuring-_

**One: Of Bleeding Teapots and Kneeling Souls**

**Two:**

**Three:**

**Four:**

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**-**_The Players-_  
_(in order of appearance)_

**Walburga Black**

**Alphard Black**

**Regulus Black**

**Sirius Black**

**(cont.)**

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_-Summation-_

**In the aftermath of the collapse of the Black House that started when Sirius ran away.**

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**-**_Additional Details-_

**K+**

**Family/Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort**

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_-Comment-_

**Dear Reader,**

**I am originally DogStar'n'LionHeart. This is my first submission in a long time, **

**and I hope you enjoy. This is a piece of purple prose, in other words it is full of extravagant**

**and descriptive language. It remains as the only piece of writing I've written that is purple to**

**such an extent. It will probably be continued with three more chapters**

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-_Enjoy-_

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_"The family is a haven in a heartless world._"

_-Attributed to Christopher Lasch_

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	2. Of Bleeding Teapots and Kneeling Souls

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**Of Bleeding Teapots and Kneeling Souls**

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_"__She was like a fabric taken from its warm closet and hung out of doors where the harsh weather will gradually consume it." – Arthur Golden, _Memoirs of a Geisha

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It was with indolence that she rose from her sheets. The sheets tumbled around her softly, and the bed emitted the slightest, weakest creak as her back curved upward. Through the murky waters of sleep her mind pushed lightly and steadily. She breathed in and the dark smell of wood filled her. The thought of sleep urged her downwards, but she willed her eyelids to lift.

The room was dark. Strands of light threaded their way through the thick cloth hanging over the windows and licked her skin and bed with warmth. Dust loitered rudely in the air and on the floors and clung to her pale skin in a thin film. She sighed softly and the dust scattered and ran around her.

The muscles in her arms and back begged her to stretch and loosen them, but she could not find the energy. Her mouth too begged, crying out for water. Her eyes took up the plead as well, crusty with morning. She shifted and her shoulder cracked dishearteningly, chastising her for not stretching.

She curled her fingers and summoned the energy to swing her legs out of bed and straighten her bent knees and curved back.

Some days, rising was the most difficult thing imaginable.

Her feet unsettled the dust sleeping modestly on the floor as her legs carried her to the door. She peered out, and a black tress slipped from her shoulder and hung lazily in the air before her.

The corridor was empty, and it left an empty place in the bottom of her chest.

_Why had he left?_

The tall clock at the end of the corridor chimed throatily, once, twice, three times…

She slipped a long, slender necked slice of wood from her gown and swiftly killed the clock. It cried out in protest and fell to the floor in an explosion of sparks and unsettled dust.

She left the corridor to its mourning and laid her wand on the wood of her dresser. Her reflection stared her down. The black around her eyes, painted so delicately the night before, rested in a smudgy mess on her face. Her light, feather-colored gown clung to her chest unattractively and dropped just below her creaking knees.

_Why hadn't he come back yet?_

She raised her arms and searched in her hair for the plait that she had left there. She tugged her hair free of its ribbon, and it showered her back in a whisper. Why bother dressing up? she wondered. For whom did she have to bother making herself presentable?

She tucked the tangle of greasy tresses behind her ear and descended the stairs to her kitchen. A pot of tea sat quietly on the table there, cruelly dismissed. She poured a cup and heated it with her wand. The taste was battered and disgusting. Her son had made it.

_Just where was he?_

"Where do you think?"

She slid her eyes to the left, and her forehead took leave on the bone of her wrist.

"Oh shove off, you dim fool." She muttered, her throat dry.

"Don't tell me you haven't figured it out."

A sip of tea passed through her lips and slipped down her throat. A drop escaped and ran in a thin rivulet down her chin. She rested the tea on the wood of the table. A hand, larger and coarser than her own, fell onto hers. It was cold.

"He is gone, my dear. Just like everyone else."

She slipped her hand away. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?" She shot back.

"Supposed to be."

"Can't you at least _stay _dead?"

A laugh, such a stranger in this place, bumped through the walls heartily, coming to a crash just to the left of her ear.

"Heh heh. Bet you wish it was your husband instead of me."

"Well, he's dead too. At least he knows how to stay dead."

"Ah, yes. But honestly, Walburga. You can't keep thinking he'll come back."

Her eyelids dropped lower. She lifted one pale finger and ran it along the rim of her tea. Curve up, down. Up, then down.

She stopped. Her nail tapped the cup slowly, and the sound filled the whole house ostentatiously.

"Walburga, I –"

"Stop it. You aren't even in the family anymore. You have no right to be here!"

A frown filled the air.

"I know…it's _your _house, after all." Calm as always. "But I'm here to tell you what you _need _to hear. He's-"

"Oh, will you shut up, you damned old fool!" She shrieked, and the noise carried through the too-quiet house, climbing the stairs hurriedly and finding every corner to fill. "My son _is _coming back. He is _not _his brother!"

Suddenly the teacup was flying, sailing, crashing. She watched it die and bleed in amber rivulets through the cracks in her floor.

"I'm sorry, Walburga." She spun to face the voice, and the teapot's handle was in her hand, a Kamikaze ready to be flung.

"I'm sorry. I know…no mother should bear the brutality of outliving her son." No.

No mother should.

All at once, the air escaped her chest and took leave on her head. Something large and empty had opened up in front of her, and the air buckled and fell.

Her elbows and knees bent and cracked, and her hair twisted and danced fiercely with the air. One half of her face was pulled into a smile by the floor, and it chilled almost immediately.

Her eyes collapsed in on themselves, and she sobbed.

"No…no…he can't." She was whispering now, and the other had to strain to hear her.

"Hmm?"

"He can't!" She let out a screech, a trill hanging anxiously in it. "He can't leave me, too."

Her body convulsed quietly. Her back arcing and racking. Her face crumpled.

Yes, she was alone.

It was a while before her body uncurled itself. The teapot wasn't dead, merely injured, lying stiffly by her head, bleeding softly into her hair and arms.

The clock upstairs let out a hollow ghostly chime, but gave up. It was much too close to death to be bothered.

Perhaps it was indolence that kept her from rising. Her body felt so dead and listless, like a poorly sewn ragdoll dismissed in the corner of a room.

For whom did she have to rise? For whom did she have to make herself presentable? Let the tea bleed, let it die silently in her hair. Let her gown be stained and blemished and imperfect. Let _everything _just for once, be beautifully, blatantly imperfect.

She curled her fingers, closed her eyes, and summoned the energy to rise. It was stubborn and declined her offer. She whipped it once, and with a bite of her lip (drawing only a smudge of blood), sent it into her limbs to help her rise.

Her legs and arms unbent themselves, her hand slapped the floor, and then her back leaned against the wall.

She sighed from the effort.

Oh yes, some days, rising was the most difficult thing imaginable.

She stretched out her legs as she sat beside the bleeding pot. And then there was a noise. A key in the front door, turning and shoving the cogs aside. A hand on the wood, and a light spreading hastily on the runner.

Someone was home.

She watched as a man of tall stature pushed close the door and lifted the cloth from a window in the entrance. Light jumped in eagerly and illuminated the taut, pale, slightly ruddy face. He drew his slender fingers back, unwrapped the scarf from his rosy neck, and turned. A gasp lifted from his lips and he hurried into the kitchen. A loaf of bread rested in his hands, but he raised it and left it alone on the table. He crouched before her.

"Mother?" He gasped, his already large grey eyes even larger. He took her face in his hands.

They were cold. And much, much too thin.

"Mother," he pushed the hair from her face with one gentle finger, "Mother, are you alright?"

She watched him lethargically, her eyes half-lidded. A tear slid from his bottom eyelid, and he smoothed her face with one thumb. His brow met.

"Mother." He was whispering now, and a quiver jumped into his voice. "Please, please, what's wrong?"

Her pale arm lifted then, and five tapered fingers curled limply around his wrist. His arm was but a thin membrane pulled brutally over his bone. A threadlike, indigo vein throbbed silently there, inhaling and exhaling blood unremittingly. She passed her thumb over the vein, and it pushed up against her.

Her lips twitched.

Then she brought up her other hand, closing her son's fingers into his palm. He watched quietly, his eyelids lowering over his eyes. She lifted his hand to her lips.

"Regulus, you've returned."

"Of course, Mother."

His knees kissed the floor as he relaxed. He leaned forward, and in the all-too-quiet house, wrapped his arms around his mother's shoulders, stealing comfort from the embrace.

"The tea spilt."

"Yes, I know…Come."

He took her hand in his, rested a hand on her back, and helped her to rise.

Her knees bent then unbent, and she pulled her gown right with her free hand. Her back straightened, and one lonely, pale, ghost of a hand stroked the hair from her face.

Her son was home.

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**(º•º) **- - - _**p**__lease __**r**__eview _

_**a**__nd thank you for reading_

_Garishly repeated words: __(indolence, __rise, __wood, __bent, __knees, __die/dead, __hand, __dust, __bleed/ing, __thin, __son)_

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